


I Loved You When We Were Young And Blushed With Youth Like Bruised Fruit

by redbrunja



Category: The Avengers (2012), Thor (2011)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-07
Updated: 2012-07-07
Packaged: 2017-11-09 08:18:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/453332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redbrunja/pseuds/redbrunja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Loki is returned to Asgard and imprisoned, he and Sif have a conversation. Since he remains muzzled, their conversation does not involve a great deal of talking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Loved You When We Were Young And Blushed With Youth Like Bruised Fruit

Loki was aware, academically, that time was passing, but its fingers barely brushed him as he sat in one of the All-Father's cells. He felt no need for rest, for water, for sustenance. The dim, blue light never changed. Shadows did not shift. If he wished, he could keep track of the days via the changing of the ever-present guards. He did not wish to.   
  
This was where he was always supposed to be, he mused bitterly. A bound, gagged prize stolen from a conquered people. Odin should have kept him here from the first; then he would have known his proper place from the very beginning.   
  
So Loki was not sure entirely sure how long it was between his imprisonment and the sound of a familiar, female voice speaking to the guards in a low tone.   
  
His head came up and he instinctively, futilely, struggled with the muzzle across his mouth.   
  
He forced himself to still before Sif came into sight.   
  
She was wearing a gown of electrum facets, her hair loose and dark about her shoulders, sleek as a raven's wing. She unlocked his cell, stepped inside, and locked it behind her, not an ounce of hesitation or wasted motion.   
  
She looked down on him, her gaze tracing his features, the line of his shoulders, his hands, folded and bound before him. Sif looked at everything, gaze clear and cool, while he swept all expression from his face.   
  
She looked faintly puzzled, faintly hurt, like a previously docile pet had, with no warning at all, bit an gentle hand.   
  
Loki felt spite curl in his belly, let it show it his eyes, and then raises his brows,  _what of it?_   
  
He watched anger bloom in her face and then she punched, he twisted, the blow not landing true, skittering across his temple, but still causing white sparks to burst behind his eyes.   
  
Sif grabbed the front of his tunic, yanked him to his feet.   
  
"You," she said, voice low and vibrating with intensity, "How could–" she bit off what she was intending to say, swept his legs out from under him in a familiar move. She landed on top, straddling his hips, one hand pinning his bound wrists to the ground above his head.   
  
He was aroused almost immediately.   
  
Sif's eyes were dark, her face pale. She wretched open his tunic, raked her nails down his chest. He lifted his hips against hers, heard her breath catch. She gave him a loaded glance as she released her hold on his bound wrists and he obediently kept them above his head. Sif reached between them, unfastening his trousers. She stroked his cock with one hand, her grip familiar, calloused fingers deliciously careless.   
  
She tugged her skirt out of the way, sank down, guiding him into her. She rode him slowly, selfishly, her fingers working her clit, her rhythm designed to lead him to the brink of climax and abandon him there. In every motion that comprised Sif, there lay the ghosts of other beddings, nights and afternoons and early mornings full of the exchange of pleasure, the only time Loki had ever been generous, had been unreservedly kind.   
  
She came with a breathless, broken gasp and Loki followed her, thrusting his hips up, feeling the aftershocks of her climax and then she shoved herself off of him, stood with her back to him. She shook her skirt out, ran her hands through her hair, checking that it fell smoothly.   
  
She drew herself up, spine straight.   
  
A thousand cruel comments and a handful of apologies rested in his throat and he was almost grateful for the muzzle, that he did not have to choose which of them to speak.   
  
Sif let herself out of his cell and did not look back.


End file.
